


some nights (most nights)

by loudanimal



Series: in pursuit of knowledge [3]
Category: Maleficent (Disney Movies)
Genre: Biting, Masturbation, Other, Pining, and Yearning(tm) but thats a given, blowjob, its borra beating his meat ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 11:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21207644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loudanimal/pseuds/loudanimal
Summary: "I love you, Borra."You'd say this, too, he's sure that you would.





	some nights (most nights)

**Author's Note:**

> uhh hjhhuytyj im still drinking & shoutout to liz for inspiring my thoughts of This Mess

He wonders, wistfully, if you ever think of him. Not in any impure way, at first just in general—when you're exploring, does he cross your mind? When you're eating or just as you wake up, do you think fo him? Are there little moments in your day where the thought of him bleeds through in spite of your best efforts, just like you do for him? That alone ignites a soft warmth in his chest that he's almost startled by, a gentle longing that glows like embers, this fantasy of you thinking of him during the most mundane parts of your day. 

He'd be a dirty liar to say that this curiosity has never darkened, though. To try and insist that he's never thought of you thinking of him as he takes himself in hand, palming his hot erection with a strangled hiss. He wonders about this the most. Do you think of him like this? Has it ever crossed your mind that he might want you? And in turn, do you want him back?

In the nicest of his fantasies, you do. You quip something at him with that sharp tongue of yours and then you kneel obligingly, grinning wickedly from the corner of your wonderful mouth when you drag that tongue lazily up the length of him. Your mouth, he imagines, is softer, _warmer_ than his hands would ever be, lips locked and tongue laving at the tip of his straining cock before you take him deeper, inch by inch, bracing your palms against the twitching muscles in his thighs. 

Would you tease him? Some nights, he imagines that you might, just because you're you—stubborn and ferocious and taunting you. Some nights he comes hot, spilling into his palm and over his knuckles at the daydream of you loving him slowly, bobbing your head as if you have all the time in the world and then some. And _then—_

And then there's the nights where all his hunger and _want_ gnaws at him with feral intent, turning him desperate until he's bucking into his own hand with an animal sort of need. There's nights were his eyes are shut tight and there in the black of the backs of his eyelids he sees you keening beneath him, flushed with the same desperation that makes a monster of him as he holds you tight and he _fucks_ you. Borra doesn't know what you'd sound like, really, but in the privacy of his own fantasies you sing for him, you groan, you gasp, and you _beg_. 

_"Borra,"_ The sweat-drenched and glowing you that lives in his mind says, _moans_ to him in a voice that has him clamping his free hand over his mouth as the other pumps away frantically. _"Borra please,"_ He tosses his head to the side, imagining what you'd look like just at the brink, neck and shoulders reddened from countless bites and suckling kisses that he'd be sure to press there, to mark you as his and his alone. Borra's hips jerk upwards unsteadily and he breathes hard through his nose. _"Like that, Borra, just like that,"_ Because he'd be perfect for you, wouldn't he? Isn't that what it means, this heat, this _want_ that drives him night after night to fuck his fist like this, imagining you here with him? On him, beneath him, around him—this is _meant_ to be, isn't it? 

Maybe. Maybe not. But Borra comes with a muffled groan of longing wishing that it is. Wishing that after so long in the dark, there's _one_ good thing here that's been waiting for him all along.

_"I love you, Borra."_ You'd say this, too, he's sure that you would. And it would be the perfect truth. This is what confounds him the most as he's coming down from the high of his pleasure in the company of only his labored breathing and his filthy hands. He wants this from you more than your mouth or your flesh or your heat and he can't—he _refuses_ to ponder why.

_"I love you so much, you nasty bastard."_ His imagination of you leaves him gutted and listless and so fucking enamored as he cleans himself. Spent as he is, the thought of your touch, your words, and your _smell_ still lingers.

In his fantasy, as he fades into sleep, he says it back. He says it back more times than he can count.


End file.
